Vella checked a wounded spearman's fever and moved to the next cot in the crowded regional clinic's surgical ward.
Inside the crowded sanctuary, forty-two wounded soldiers and civilian refugees rested upon rows of simple canvas cots.
Vella walked between the beds with effortless grace, her golden hair streaked violet and tied back with a dark satin ribbon.
Her slender hands pulsed with gentle amethyst light, knitting fractured bones and soothing feverish brows with surgical precision.
"Drink the willow bark infusion and keep your leg elevated until tomorrow," she instructed a young spearman whose bandaged thigh was healing.
"Try jumping off the fortress battlements again, and I will personally stitch your mouth shut with barbed wire."
The soldier laughed weakly, clutching his cup with genuine gratitude in his tired, sunken gaze.
"You have a sharp tongue, Lady Vella, but you saved three fingers that the fortress surgeon wanted to amputate."
